Nobody is looking for her.
Some hapless soul will have to stumble across her by accident.
Eventually, of course, the gory details will wind up in some police database, as well, perhaps, as in the press, and a connection will be made to Matilda Harrington’s murder.
But for now, as far as the authorities know, that was an isolated incident.
Which means not only are the police probably not looking for Cassandra Ashford…
But they aren’t looking for me, either.
Not yet, anyway.
Now what? Fiona wonders, lighting a new cigarette from the one in her hand.
She really thought Brynn would jump at the chance to get out of the house, where, as far as Fiona can tell, she’s spent her days cooped up and paranoid.
Plus, she can probably use some extra money, especially with Christmas coming.
Never mind the fact that I’m left in a lurch without an assistant and I really need her, Fiona thinks, stubbing out the original cigarette and inhaling the new one.
Who else is there?
Deirdre.
Maybe she should just come right out and ask her sister for help, instead of beating around the bush, inviting her to come up for their birthday as if everything is just fine.
Yes, she should have asked Deirdre for help, and she should have told her what’s going on. She should have admitted that she needs her…
Because I’m alone. And I’m scared. And I have no one else.
She dials her sister’s cell phone.
It rings several times and goes into voice mail.
“Dammit,” Fiona mutters, and shakes her head. She hangs up rather than leave a message she knows will go unanswered for several days, and tries a new tactic.
Clutching her cigarette between her lips, she flips through her Rolodex to find her sister’s girlfriend’s number.
Antoinette answers on the second ring.
“Hi, it’s Fiona!”
There’s a brief pause.
“Fiona? What’s going on?” Antoinette asks in her lilting island patois.
“I’m just looking for my sister and I know she doesn’t answer her phone so I hoped you’d answer yours and put her on.”
“I would if I could, but I can’t,” Antoinette tells her. “She’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“We broke up, and Deirdre moved out over a month ago. I have no idea where she went.”
I can’t keep doing this, Garth tells himself as he peeks into the boys’ room, bathed in the golden glow of a SpongeBob night-light. His sons are both sound asleep.
Of course they are.
It’s five in the morning.
Garth closes the door quietly and tiptoes down the hall, past the master bedroom where Brynn, too, was deep in slumber when he looked in on her a moment ago.
This is nothing new, this creeping around his own house in the dead of night. But lately, it feels wrong.
He has to start coming home at a reasonable hour again so that he can see his children, eat with them, tuck them into bed. He has to start being a better father. And, yes, a better husband.
In the den, he settles into his recliner with a newspaper and a mug of herbal tea. He’s feeling too keyed up to sleep, but maybe if he reads, and sips—
Somewhere in the house, a door creaks.
Footsteps scurry.
Another door closes.
One of the boys? Garth bolts from his chair and makes a beeline for the hall, where he sees a crack of light beneath the closed bathroom door.
Relieved, he pulls it open, expecting to see Caleb trying to avert one of his infrequent bed-wetting episodes.
But there’s Brynn, kneeling on the floor in front of the toilet, throwing up.
“Hey,” Garth says gently, and touches her hair. “You’ve got that stomach bug? It’s going around on campus.”
She says nothing, and continues retching.
When she’s finished, she stands, looking wan, and rinses her mouth at the sink.
“I hope the boys don’t catch it.” Garth takes a towel that’s dangling from the broken-off towel bar’s protruding prong and hands it to her.
Brynn takes it from him and wipes her face and hands, saying, “Yeah, so do I.”
Fiona reaches over to turn off her alarm clock the minute before it’s set to go off.
She often wakes before it does, but this morning is different.
It’s different because she didn’t wake up; she hasn’t slept at all.
Paranoia—fueled by Tildy’s murder and Cassie’s disappearing act—has taken over now.
Fiona has spent the last eight hours coming to terms with the fact that she’s entirely alone. James hasn’t called her. Emily is gone, and Brynn won’t step in to help, and her business is too much to manage single-handedly. Especially now. And Deirdre…
God, even her twin sister has lied to her and fallen off the face of the earth.
That, of course, was the final blow. Deirdre is a grown woman; she has a right not to answer her phone or return calls. But why didn’t she at least confide in Fiona about the breakup?
According to Antoinette, Deirdre was probably afraid to admit to Fiona that their relationship didn’t make it.
“That’s because she was always proud that she had succeeded in the only place where you had failed. She said you were good at everything. You had everything she didn’t: a college degree, a great kid, money, a thriving business right there in your hometown where everyone respects you. Deirdre always said she could never live up to all that.”
Antoinette’s words stung. It never occurred to Fiona that her sister had an inferiority complex—and that she could hide it so well for all these years.
For Fiona, it’s as if the invisible cord that joined her to her twin has suddenly snapped, and she’s been catapulted into an alternate universe where nothing is familiar.
And danger is lurking at every turn.
Maybe she’s wrong about that.
But Fiona can’t afford to take any chances.
Because if she doesn’t do something drastic…
If she just continues to go about her daily business from now until Sunday…
She might not live to see Monday.
She knows what she has to do.
And she knows that there are only two people she can possibly ask for help.
One is Brynn. She’ll agree to help. With this, anyway. Fee can count on her.
As for the other…
Fiona can only cross her fingers and hope she won’t be rebuffed.
She picks up her purse and makes sure she has several quarters for the pay phone down the block. She isn’t even going to risk making a call from here.
Maybe it’s paranoia, but she can’t help feeling like the walls have eyes and ears.
You should have told him.
The refrain has been running through Brynn’s head all day.
This morning, when Garth caught her being sick in the bathroom, would have been the perfect opportunity to break the news of her pregnancy.
She actually thought for a moment that it was so obviously morning sickness, he would have to figure it out.
But no, not Garth. He cluelessly assumed it was a stomach bug, thus letting her off the hook.
You still could have told him.
You should have told him.
And she will.
Yes, over the coming weekend, provided he doesn’t spend every minute of it in the campus library again.
At the moment, her primary concern is returning a call to Fiona. There was a message from her just now, when Brynn returned from Stop & Shop with a carload of groceries and Jeremy, who is hungry for lunch.
“Brynn, it’s Fee, just give me a call as soon as you can.” Fiona paused for a moment, then added, “Don’t worry, this isn’t about working for me, and it isn’t about Cassie or anything like that.”
Brynn is grateful for that reassuring addendum. Still, she won�
��t delay calling Fee back. She hasn’t spoken to her since yesterday, when Fee all but hung up on her when she turned down the job offer.
Brynn dials her office number. The groceries can wait in the car for a few more minutes, and Jeremy can temporarily occupy himself with a plastic tub full of cars and trucks on the living room floor.
“Fiona Fitzgerald Public Relations, Fiona speaking.”
So she hasn’t found a temporary receptionist yet. “Hey, it’s Brynn. What’s going on?”
There’s a pause.
“I’ll call you back in a few minutes, okay?”
“Okay.”
Puzzled, Brynn hangs up and waits.
Almost a full five minutes, wondering with increasing anxiety if she should forget about Fee and go get the groceries.
Then the phone rings, and the caller ID number is unfamiliar.
She hesitates before picking up.
It’s Fiona.
“Where are you?”
“On a pay phone.”
“Why?”
“Just listen, and don’t say anything specific in case someone is listening on your end.”
“Nobody’s here but Jeremy,” Brynn says, but her voice is hushed and she looks around uneasily just the same.
“Brynn, I need a favor.”
Of course you do.
“As long as it’s not about my working there—”
“I already told you it isn’t. I have to go away for a few days.”
“On business?”
“Brynn—my birthday is Sunday.”
Oh. Of course.
It isn’t that Brynn hasn’t been aware that every passing day brings Fiona’s milestone ominously closer. She just assumed, because Fee hasn’t brought it up, that she isn’t worried about it.
But clearly, she is. And in the face of her friend’s unprecedented vulnerability, Brynn is left feeling as though she herself is precariously clinging to the sheer face of a massive rock wall, and one of her sturdy iron toeholds has just been plucked out from under her.
“What do you need, Fee? Whatever it is…You know I’m here.”
“I need two things. One is absolute secrecy. You can’t tell another living soul that I’m going away.”
“I won’t.”
“I mean it, Brynn. Not Garth. Not your kids. Not my kid.”
“You’re not telling Ashley?”
“I’m not telling anyone. This is her weekend with Pat. He picks her up from school today and he doesn’t bring her back until Sunday.”
“Sunday is your birthday.”
“That’s where you come in, Brynn.” Fiona lets out a deep breath.
She’s a nervous wreck, Brynn realizes, and her own anxiety kicks up another notch.
“I need you to be at my place, waiting, when Pat drops off Ashley Sunday morning at eleven. Make sure you have the boys with you—Ashley will jump at the chance to spend time with them. Just bring her home with you and keep her there for me, until you hear from me. Bring her to school Monday, and keep doing it until I’m back.”
“But—”
“Brynn, I can’t take any chances; I’m laying low until my birthday is long gone.”
“Where—”
“Shh, please, don’t say anything. Just in case. And I can’t tell you where I’m going, Brynn. I’m not telling anyone.”
Maybe she’s just going up to her cabin in the mountains, Brynn thinks. Few people even know she has it, and those who do wouldn’t expect to find her there.
“I knew I could count on you,” Fiona is saying.
“But…What am I supposed to tell Ashley?” she whispers. “And Pat?”
“Just say that something came up and I asked you to take care of Ash for the day.”
“What if Pat gives me a hard time?”
“He won’t. He’s a great guy when he’s dealing with everyone but me.”
That’s true. Brynn can’t imagine affable Pat standing in her way, especially when he sees Ashley’s affection for Caleb and Jeremy.
“Fee, I’m worried about you.”
Her friend is silent for a moment.
Then she says, her voice laced with stark fear, “So am I.”
CHAPTER 19
It’s getting worse.
The morning sickness.
Yesterday, it lasted well into the afternoon. Now it’s kicked in, violently, before the sun has even come up.
Then again, it is officially morning.
As in four forty-three, Brynn notes, glancing at the illuminated digital clock as she climbs back into her empty bed following a particularly vicious vomit session in the bathroom.
She tried to keep the noise down in there, but it was hard. She half-expected Garth to come knocking on the door to check on her, but he didn’t.
He must be sound asleep in his chair in the other room.
Or maybe he isn’t even home yet.
He spent last night at the library again, working on his book. When he left, she jokingly complained that she’s beginning to feel like a single mother.
Garth didn’t crack a smile. He only said, absently, “Sorry, I’ve got to get this done,” and then he left.
Just as well. The less time they spend together, the easier it is to conceal all that she’s hiding from Garth right now.
She’s content to let him spend his time on campus while she stays home alone with the boys. Caleb and Jeremy don’t notice her brooding, or jumping at every unexpected sound, or turning green every time she opens the fridge and smells Thursday night’s leftover Chinese food.
Brynn rolls over and yawns. The alarm won’t be going off for at least—
Wait a minute. It won’t be going off at all. Today is Sunday.
Good. She can go back to sleep.
Then, suddenly, Brynn remembers what else today is.
Fiona’s birthday.
Opening her eyes, Fiona senses it’s early.
How early?
There’s no clock nearby; she has no idea.
She gets up and slips over to the window to peek between the wooden slats of the blinds.
The sun is coming up, painting the eastern horizon in glowing pinks and golds with the promise of a beautiful day.
And I’ll be here to see it, she thinks with a sleepy, satisfied yawn, before lying down again. But not until later…
It’s been years since she’s slept this well.
Maybe that’s because, for once, she’s not worrying about her business, or her schedule, or even her daughter.
Right now, she’s not even worrying about falling victim to whoever has been stalking her with mementos of the past, and her association with Rachel.
I finally feel safe, she thinks as she drifts off again.
Ahhh, good. She’s sound asleep.
On the couch, surprisingly.
Not in bed, where you’d expect her to be at this hour.
No, she’s dozing in the living room, half-sitting up, still fully dressed…almost as though she’s been waiting for someone.
But not for me.
It’s tempting to wake her, just for the final satisfaction of letting her see who’s in charge now.
Tempting…but far too risky.
Fiona Fitzgerald will undoubtedly go down fighting, given the chance.
But I can’t afford to give it to her.
This old Tudor is solidly built; not a floorboard creaks as footsteps, muffled by the luxurious designer rug, swiftly cross the room.
Fiona’s impudent features are unexpectedly sedate in slumber. How deceptively benign she seems now.
But she isn’t.
Nobody knows better than I do that she’s about as benign as a rabid bear.
And, like a rabid bear that has destroyed an innocent victim, she has to be put down before she can do any more harm.
The knife was taken just now from its place of honor in her own kitchen, plucked from a butcher block stand on her counter top. It’s a Henckels chef’s knife—which probably c
osts more than a month of Ashley’s private school tuition—ironic, since Fiona doesn’t even cook.
Doubly, and delightfully, ironic that the knife will be put to good use anyway.
The blade is held, clenched in two hands, for a long, breathtaking moment, poised high in the air above the sleeping woman on the couch.
This time, there’s no inclination to linger, to savor.
This time, there’s only an urgent desire to accomplish the task that has been repeatedly envisioned through the years.
Envisioned so many times that when the knife is brought down in one tremendous, sweeping arc, it strikes its target with admirable precision.
Bull’s-eye!
The well-honed blade sinks into her heart as if catapulted by Cupid’s bow itself.
Her body convulses reflexively as a red stain spreads across her shirt, and her eyelids flutter for a moment, but her eyes never open.
“Look at me, you bitch! Look at me!”
Who said that?
I did.
The words were hurtled unexpectedly, almost seeming to come from somebody else’s lips, but there’s nobody else in the room.
Nobody other than Fiona, dying swiftly, silently, on her own designer couch, without knowing why it has to be this way.
Without realizing that she’s no longer in control of anything at all…
No, I am.
And I want her to know that.
“Look at me! Open your eyes, dammit! Look at me!”
But she doesn’t open her eyes, not even when she’s violently grabbed by the shoulders and shaken.
She’s gone.
She doesn’t know.
She’ll never know.
Her body is hurtled to the floor like a rag doll, kicked hard, with little satisfaction. The hilt is pulled, with some effort, from deep in her chest.
The blade gouges into one of her eye sockets and then the other, brutally twisting, turning, digging.
Seeing the bloody pulp oozing in its wake brings some pleasure…but not nearly enough.
I wanted her to see.
I wanted her to be afraid.
I wanted her to know.
But it’s too late for any of that.
Like the others, Fiona Fitzgerald has paid the ultimate price for what she did.
Unlike the others, she didn’t suffer enough. She didn’t experience those exquisite moments of sheer, helpless terror, when you know you’re going to die, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.
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